


gimme shelter

by Areiton



Series: storm & shield [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Established Pepper/Rhodey/Tony, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, Mechanic Steve Rogers, Mentioned Character Death, Modern Bucky Barnes, Pre-Relationship, Protective Steve Rogers, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, War Veteran Steve Rogers, age gap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: He doesn’t squirm. He’s been running special ops for most of his adult life, spent four months in that fucking POW camp with Dum Dum and came home down an arm but up a shitton of baggage.A pretty pair of tits on a man that hits all his daddy issues with a smile slow and sweet as molasses and sky blue eyes isn’t gonna make him break.“Come on in, you can tell me about Dum Dum,” Steve says, and leads Bucky toward the staff room.Bucky takes one look at his ass and rethinks that--Steve Rogers will break him.OR:Bucky comes home from the war with a shit ton of baggage and not a helluva a lot else. Steve Rogers might be the best thing to happen to him since his life fell apart--but only if Bucky'll let him be.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pepper Potts/James "Rhodey" Rhodes/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Series: storm & shield [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014969
Comments: 12
Kudos: 77





	gimme shelter

The shop is oversized and set back from the road. There’s a few cars waiting, and AC/DC is blasting from the speakers he can’t see, and the familiar sound of metal banging and grease in the air. One of the bays is closed, and he frowns nervously. It’s not like this is his last option--but it kinda is, too. 

He pulls into the parking lot, and breathes out a prayer. 

A bell chimes happily when he pushes into Shield Auto, and a rush of cool air greets him, a welcome respite from the heat. 

A red-head is sitting at the reception desk, immaculate in a green sundress and sleek ponytail. 

She’s cursing at the computer and she stabs a button in front of her and _snarls_ , “Tony, get your _ass_ in here before I stab your eye out with my shoes.” 

There’s a crash from the garage, and Bucky takes a nervous step back. 

“You can go talk to Steve,” she says, so sweet and warm that Bucky gapes, wrong-footed, before the door to the side bangs open and a gorgeous, grease stained man spills into the office. He’s grinning and wiping his hands on a filthy rag. 

“Pep, darling, love of my life, what--” 

“Don’t you _Pep_ me, you little asshole,” she hisses, and Bucky edges past the two of them because he’s been given a pass and he doesn’t really want to stick around for whatever the hell all that is. 

He pauses, one step into the spacious garage.

It’s beautiful. There’s a Camero with it’s wheels off abandoned on the lift, and a minivan that someone is working on just beyond that, but it’s more than that. It’s the art on the walls--rough sketches of skylines and diagrams of engines--and the neat order of the tools. It’s the two tarp covered shapes that make him itchy to investigate. It’s the music and the cool air and the grease that he wants under his nails and the fact that DumDum used to come here. 

“Help you, son?” 

He blinks. 

The man is gorgeous. 

He’s got an inch on Bucky, shoulders so broad it makes him want to _whine_ , a tight, stained white t-shirt straining across them, tits to fucking _die_ for, all of it tapering to a narrow waist and long, thick legs. 

There’s tattoos under the grease smeared on his arms, and spread over his knuckles of long, artist fingers, he reads _Tony_ and _Jean._

He’s smiling, a friendly open thing, his blue eyes sweeping over Bucky in a quick appraisal that leaves Bucky so hot he fights the urge to squirm, a neatly trimmed beard and thick dark blonde hair, both shot through with silver that does absolutely nothing to take away from how fucking _gorgeous_ he is. 

Bucky _wants_ , so fast and so hard he’s lightheaded with it, mouth dry and cock thickening up in his jeans. He hasn’t wanted anyone since Before, and it’s so fucking shocking, he takes too long to respond--that pretty smile dips into a frown, concern coloring his bright blue eyes. “You alright?” 

His voice was all rough and rumbling, like a storm on the horizon and Bucky has always loved the rain. 

“A friend--” his voice cracks and he clears his throat, trying again. “A friend of mine--he used to bring his bike here. Said to ask for Cap.” 

The big man brightens, and he pulls a his shirt up and swipes sweat from his forehead, exposing another fucking tattoo carved across his abs. “Steve Rogers,” he says, warm and friendly. “What can I do for you?” 

_Cap is good people, Bucky. He’ll take real good care of you. Just gotta ask for a little help, you stubborn bastard._

He doesn’t _like_ asking for help, is the problem. 

He doesn’t have any fucking choice in the matter. 

“Dum Dum Dugan left me his Harley,” Bucky says, softly.

All that happy brightness drains out of Steve, and his shoulders slump. “Shit,” he mutters, low enough that Bucky thinks he’s probably not supposed to hear it. 

“Cap!” A voice shouts, “I’ve gotta go--Jbird is--”

“Go on,” Steve calls, not really looking away from Bucky, and that piercing blue gaze is _doing_ things to him. He doesn’t squirm. He’s been running special ops for most of his adult life, spent four months in that fucking POW camp with Dum Dum and came home down an arm but up a shitton of baggage. 

A pretty pair of tits on a man that hits all his daddy issues with a smile slow and sweet as molasses and sky blue eyes isn’t gonna make him break. 

“Come on in, you can tell me about Dum Dum,” Steve says, and leads Bucky toward the staff room.

Bucky takes one look at his ass and rethinks that--Steve Rogers _will_ break him. 

He doesn’t even think he _minds._

~*~ 

The little room is cool and calm, the music from the garage fading away. There’s a messy desk in one corner of the room, a long counter that’s almost meticulous, only an empty baby’s bottle near the empty coffee pot. 

“You want some lemonade? Pep made a batch this morning. We’ve got water, too.” 

“Lemonade is fine,” he says, softly and Steve leans down to pull it out, and Bucky looks away because he can’t actually function presented with that ass. 

“Dum Dum loved that old bike.” Steve says, over the cool rush of liquid pouring. “You must have meant a lot to him.” 

When he closes his eyes, Bucky can still see Dum Dum, bloody grin and guts spilling out of his fingers. It shouldn’t have gone down the way it did. 

“Didn’t catch your name,” Steve says, sitting down at a small square table and nodding Bucky at the chair opposite. 

“James. James Barnes,” Bucky says, and Steve’s eyebrows twitch up. 

“Bucky Barnes?” Bucky nods, and he smiles, that sweet kind smile that he’s already a little bit addicted to. “Dum Dum talked about you,” he says, but he doesn’t say more than that, and despite the urge to beg for exactly _what_ , Bucky keeps his mouth shut. 

“What’s going on with the bike?” Steve asks, setting aside their dead, and the band tightening in around his chest loosens up, letting him inhale. 

“It needs work. Dum Dum knew it--always said we’d do it together, when we got home, take a trip to the Grand Canyon.”

“You can do the work?” 

Bucky flushes and slowly lifts his hand--the metal one, the experimental state of the art prosthetic--on the table. “I can. But I don’t got the space or the tools.” 

Steve tips his head, considering. “I can do it for you. Tony specializes in muscle cars and engine performance--but I’m handy with a bike.”

Bucky shifts, a hot burn of shame rising in his cheeks. 

“That’s not quite what you were thinkin’,” Steve says, softly. 

_Cap is good people, Bucky. He’ll take real good care of you. Just gotta ask for a little help, you stubborn bastard._

He _promised_ is the thing. Swore to Dum Dum he’d come home and live his life, that he’d take that damn ride to the Grand Canyon. 

_Don’t let this place eat you up, kid. Get out and get_ out. 

“Dum Dum was one of my best friends,” Steve says softly. “It’s why I brought Tony here, when I got out. He’s why I have this shop. And you matter to him--you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. You wouldn’t have that bike, if you didn’t.” 

Bucky blinks at him, and he can feel tears burning in his eyes, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He just sits there, patient and beautiful, the bright summer sun shining off silver and turning the grease shiny. 

“I can’t pay,” he blurts out. “I can do the work--I can do some work for you to pay for it, even, but I don’t got the money for what she needs.” 

He doesn’t have the money for a fucking hotel tonight. The truck he hauled her here with is borrowed. He’s got a bag on his back and an over-priced, shiny metal arm and not a helluva a lot else. 

Steve is quiet for a long time. Then, “You think you can finish up the brakes on that Camero? Tony--he’s been cuttin’ out early because of the baby, and I don’t mind, but could use an extra pair of hands.”

“‘Course,” Bucky breathes. “I can--yeah. I can do that.” 

“You can use the shop, after hours. I’ll pay you--”

“You’ll _pay_ ,” Bucky says, incredulous. 

A look comes over Steve’s face, and he can’t read it--but it’s not pity. Something like indignation and sympathy, but not pity. 

“You gonna work for me, kid, you’re gonna go take a paycheck. Pepper will figure that out tomorrow, if it’s alright with you? Shop opens at 8:30, I expect you here a half-hour early. Close up at 5:30, and you’re welcome to order your parts through our supplier. Sound good?” 

Bucky nods, barely daring to breath, and Steve smiles. It’s like the sun coming out after the storm. “Welcome to Shield, Bucky.” 

~*~ 

Steve gets the garage first every morning. He likes it, likes being the one to start the coffee and go over the notes Pepper has left, the jobs they're working on while Marvin Gaye fills up the room and the day heats outside. 

Tony will roll in at 8:40, with a bag of donuts and messy hair and a pinched look in his eyes because he hates leaving the baby at daycare. But for that first hour, the place is all his and he loves it. 

Except that there's a man shaped lump sitting propped against the building. 

What the fuck was he thinking, hiring this kid with sad eyes and a tragic backstory without even talking to the others? 

He watches Bucky lift a cigarette to his lips, red and wet and his cock gives a happy twitch as they close over the end, cheeks hollowing a bit as he inhales. 

Oh right. _That's_ what he was thinking.

“Buck?” he says, pushing out of the truck, and ambling across the gravel. “You alright, son?” 

Bucky blinks at him, and he sees the moment _he_ registers for the other man, the way his pretty eyes go wide and the cigarette falls from his fingers as he scrambles up to his feet. “Yeah! Yes, sir, I’m fine,” he says, then hesitates. “I wanted to make sure I wasn’t late?” 

Steve blinks at him, at the way his hands twist anxiously together, and his teeth flash white against the red of his mouth when he bites down on his lip. 

“Well, come on in. I was gonna make a pot of coffee.” 

Bucky follows him obediently, and Steve tries very hard not to dwell on that. Dum Dum had told him about the kid, in one of those too rare nights when they drank and talked, caught up on all the ways their lives had diverged. 

Steve didn’t regret any of the things that took him away from the Army. He didn’t regret the career he had and he didn’t regret that it ended early. 

He did regret that he wasn’t there, with the men he’d trained and loved, bled and fought for. He did regret that he wasn’t with Dum Dum. 

But then, Dum Dum started talking about this sassy new recruit, bright eyed and a world-class shot, and some of the tension had eased, because he wasn’t there to watch Dum Dum’s back, but _someone_ was, and this Bucky kid sounded like a good kid, a good _person_. 

He hadn’t looked, when the news came down, that Dum Dum died in that POW camp. He hadn’t let himself care about who else was there. Because his best friend was dead, and what the fuck did it matter, who else was there or if any of them survived. 

But Bucky did. 

He’s standing here, in Steve’s garage at ass o’clock in the middle of nowhere South Carolina. 

“You want coffee?” he offers, instead of demanding to know how DumDum died. 

Bucky nods, shyly, and Steve busies himself with that, for a few minutes. 

Here’s the thing--Dum Dum was his best friend. And Dum Dum adored Bucky, talked about him all the time, but it was a little brother kind of adoration, the kind of uncomplicated, easy affection that was proprietary and protective. 

It reminds him, a little, how he feels about Sam and Nat, how he feels about Pepper. 

And it means that Bucky--Bucky with his pretty mouth and shy eyes and ass that he wants to fucking _bite_ \--is firmly off limits. 

He hands Bucky a mug of coffee and watches the kid dump sugar and cream into it before taking a long sip, a smile of pure bliss spreading across his lips. 

Fuck. 

Fuck and damn. 

“Didn’t tell you much about the place, last night. You want the nickel tour?” Steve says, because he can’t just _stare._

It’s rude. 

“Please,” Bucky breathes and that goes right to his cock and honestly, it shouldn’t be this fucking difficult to keep his dick in his pants. But what he really wants is to drag Bucky across the table and lick into that pretty mouth of his. 

Shove him against the wall and find out what noises he makes when he comes grinding on Steve’s thigh. 

He wants to make him _beg_. 

Steve shoves that thought down and smiles. “Come on, then.” 

~*~ 

Bucky is lowering the Camero when Steve straightens from the minivan. “Start a fresh pot of coffee, would ya?” he asks, wiping his hands on the rag, and Bucky blinks at him because it’s such a non-sequitur. 

They haven’t talked much--Steve showed him around the garage, told him about the staff--Pepper and Tony were the only two full time employees, but Peter and Harley worked weekends for a little spending money--and asked him what he was comfortable doing. He didn’t ask about Dum Dum. He didn’t ask about his arm, or why the hell Bucky’d been half asleep leaning against his building this morning. 

The thing is--he didn’t mean to be. He’d camped in a field between Dum Dum’s family farm and town, grateful for the clear night. With a job, he could maybe spend a little of the cash he had and get a tent, so he wouldn’t be out in the open. 

He woke with the sun, and lay there in his sleeping bag for a while, before he crawled out and started walking. He’d reached the garage well before he’d meant to, and he _knew_ it’d look strange, finding him there, washed up like so much trash, but he didn’t have a lot of options. In the end, he’d just decided to rest against the door before he walked to the corner store for a granola bar. 

He hadn’t expected Steve to roll up in a shiny blue Chevy pickup an hour early, looking flush and content and beautiful. 

Still--Steve hadn’t commented on the oddness, and Bucky hadn’t pushed, and they’d done alright, moving around each other and settling into work, a cup of coffee warm in his belly. 

The crooning blues cuts off and Black Sabbath replaces it and it makes Bucky look up, eyes going wide as he stares at Steve. 

He shrugs, and smiles a little sheepishly, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles. “Tony likes it,” he says. 

Steve hasn’t said who Tony is to him--but the man’s name is inked across his fingers, so Bucky figures he must be important. He just nods, and goes back to closing up the Camaro. 

The door swings open a few minutes later, as he’s sliding into the car to pull it into the parking lot, and Steve raps on the hood. “Buck, hold up a sec.” 

Tony is just as pretty as Bucky’d thought the day before--classically handsome, with thick dark hair, dark skin and big brown eyes that narrow at the sight of Bucky sitting in the car he’s been working on. “What is this? Who is this?” he twists away, frowning deep at Steve. “Who the hell is this, Cap?” 

“If you’d pipe down, I could tell you,” Steve says mildly and Bucky steps out of the car, shuffling anxiously. “This is Bucky. He’s a friend of DumDum’s. He’s gonna help out around the garage.” 

Tony is silent, eyes narrow and thoughtful, and Steve nods at him. “Buck, this is my godson, Tony. He’s the one responsible for that ancient Roadster in the corner. You met Pepper yesterday--she’s Tony’s wife, although everyone in town is still trying to figure out how he managed that.” 

“Cap!” Tony whines, stomping a foot, and Steve laughs. Then dark eyes slide to him, curiously. “You know about cars?” Tony asks, skeptical.

Bucky nods, not real sure what to say. “You--you can check, if you want,” he says, nodding at the Camaro. 

Tony brightens, but Steve’s hand comes down on his shoulder, and his eyes are firm when he says, “That’s not necessary.”

Bucky hesitates, and Steve gives him the smile he’s quickly becoming addicted too—small and sweet. “Pull this around front and bring in the Charger?”

Bucky nods and slides back into the car.

“Pepper might just kill you for this, Cap,” Tony says, and Steve smiles a little, going back to the minivan.

He loses track of time, working on the Dodge Charger. It’s not _hard_ work, but it takes concentration with his prothesis, and the music makes everything else fade away, and it’s calm, the way that sitting in his sniper nest, the world narrowed down to his crosshairs, was calm.

But this won’t leave his hands shaking and his belly twisting, so there’s that.

“You gonna knock off for lunch?” Steve asks, and Bucky blinks up at him. He’s got grease smeared on his throat, and a grin quirking his lips, and Bucky doesn’t actually understand what he just said.

It sinks in a second later, and his stomach gives a hungry grumble that makes Steve’s eyebrows go up.

He never did get that granola bar from the corner store.

“I’m ok,” he says, because he doesn’t really want to explain to his new employer that he doesn’t have a lunch. He doesn’t have the money for lunch.

He wonders, belly twisting, how long before Steve gives him his first check.

“You—“ Steve starts, eyes wide, and then frowns, so sharply disappointed that Bucky takes a half step back, a little anxious. “C’mon. You can come with me. I hate eatin’ alone. Mabel always thinks it means I want company.”

“But—”

“Move your feet, solider,” Steve snaps, just enough bite to make his spine snap straight and to fall in behind a senior officer.

The army ingrained their habits deep.

Steve drives them to a small dinner on the edge of town, and he sits across from him in the booth meekly.

There’s a grilled cheese for two fifty. That’s not too bad. He can mange that.

He should stop at the store tonight though, maybe buy a loaf of bread and some peanut butter, so this won’t happen again.

An ancient waitress ambles up with a cup of coffee. “You want the chicken or hamburger today?”

“Chicken. And whatever my friend is having,” Steve says, nodding at Bucky who stares at him, wide-eyed and startled.

“Oh—” He swallows, “You don’t have to.”

“Don’t make Mable wait on you, son,” Steve says, softly.

“A grilled cheese, please?”

Mabel and Steve both pause, staring at him. He can _feel_ it.

“Mabel, I think the burger, actually. You know the way I like it. Get Bucky here the same. And a milkshake. Chocolate.”

His eyes dart up but Steve’s sky blue gaze is stubborn, almost _daring_ him to argue.

Bucky bites his lip and keeps his mouth closed.

“You don’t have to go without, Buck,” Steve says, softly as Mabel retreats, and it’s so gentle that it makes tears sting in his eyes, and he looks out at the busy parking lot. There’s a knot of teenagers shouting and laughing, a little girl chasing a ball near her mama, a Black man with a toddler on his hip. A plastic bag scuttles across the pavement, and he feels his fingers tighten on the edge of the table.

It feels safe and strange and he wants to sink into this place, into the warm concerned gaze of the man across from him, except he doesn’t get to keep this. 

He _knows_ he doesn’t get to keep this. He doesn’t get to keep anything _good_ since--

“You know, DumDum brought me here the first time we both had leave at the same time.” Seve says, drawing his attention. “Dragged me home with him, because I didn’t have family in Brooklyn once Ma died. So I come home with him and he sits me down in this booth and fed me and we didn’t say a lot, because back then, we were both haunted by the war, still. But he knew the value of family and food, and I’m gonna take a page outta his book.”

Bucky chances a glance at him, under the fringe of his lashes and Steve leans across the table, beautiful and earnest. “You don’t gotta tell me anything, Bucky. Not til you’re ready, and maybe that won’t ever come. But so long as you’re here—you aren’t alone. You got me and you have a place. Let someone help you, if you need it.”

“I can get by,” he says, because he can. He _can._ He’s been doing just fine, getting by on his own since Mama and Becca—

“You can. But you don’t have to,” Steve murmurs. “Not if you let me help you.”

_Just gotta ask for a little help, you stubborn bastard._

Bucky blinks at him, and he exhales slowly. “Ok,” he whispers.

Steve smiles, sweet and bright and Bucky wonders what the hell he just agreed to. 

Mabel comes back and puts two plates on the table. The burger is thick and dripping with cheese, thick tomatoes and onions, crisp lettuce sandwiched between a warm bun. There's a side of fries, crisp and golden and salty, and she drops a plate of onion rings between the two of them. "Be right back with those shakes," she says. 

Steve nods at his plate as she retreats. "Eat up, Buck." 

He's always been a good soldier, and does exactly what he's told. He takes a big bite of the burger, and groans as the flavor explodes on his tongue, that fire grilled burnt, juicy and delicious. When he opens his eyes--not entirely sure when he'd closed them--Steve is staring at him, eyes bright and intent, and Bucky flushes a little, licking his lips. 

"Hey, Cap, didn't expect to see you here." 

Bucky startles at the words and looks up. The Black man and toddler he'd noticed in the parking lot are standing next to the table, the little girl--small, with dark skin to match the man's, hair done in neat braids that poofs into a dark cloud of curls, in a red shirt and black leggings--is leaning across the man holding her, making grabby hands at Steve. 

Who lights the fuck _up_. The smile is almost blinding and he scoops the baby up with a low pleased noise. "Hey, J-baby. How's my best girl?" he croons and oh no. 

Oh _no_.

Bucky is not _prepared_ for this, for this beautiful sweet man with his silver hair and thigh tattooed fingers and gorgeous smile to talk like _that_ to a baby, to hold her close and natural, while she clings to him, all trusting and happy. 

He wants to fucking _die_. 

"You stayin, Rhodey?" Steve asks. 

The Black man laughs, and shrugs. "Think my kid will throw a fit if I leave." He slides into the seat with Bucky and offers a friendly smile. "James Rhodes." 

"Bucky Barnes," Bucky mumbles. 

"Bucky is helping at the shop, since Tony has been so distracted. Should help y'all out some." 

Bucky doesn't quite frown but it's a near thing, and Rhodey catches it, a smile going tight across his lips. "Didn't explain this to your new guy, did you, Cap?" 

"Didn't know that my son's partners were his business, or mine to share," Steve answers, feeding a fry to the baby in his arms. 

Rhodey snorts. Twists to give Bucky a belligerent stare. "Tony and Pepper are married, but we're together. Have been for almost a decade. You gonna have a problem with that?" 

Bucky blinks at him. Takes a bite of a french fry and says, "I don't got a problem with folk lovin' each other, so long as everyone is happy and healthy. Tony seems real happy, sir." 

The tension drains out of Rhodey's shoulders and he huffs, a breath of laughter that sounds more relieved than anything. 

"Take lunch to him," Steve says. "I'll bring Jean with me, when I head back." 

"You don't mind?" Rhodey asks, hopeful and Steve rolls his eyes. 

It's all Rhodey needs to scoot out of the bench, drop a kiss on his daughter's head and dart away. 

"They don't get a lot of time, just the three of them," Steve says, watching after Rhodey fondly. "Work and a baby will do that." 

"You said he was your godson," Bucky blurts out. 

Steve pauses in the middle of situating Jean--oh god, his _tattoo_ \--and sighs. "If I promise to tell you the whole story later, can we enjoy lunch without any more heavy conversations?" 

Jean chews on her fry and eyes Bucky skeptically, just like Tony had this morning, and it makes a laugh bubble in his chest, the first in so long it almost dies when he realizes that's what's happened. It doesn't though. 

"Yeah, Steve. That's fine." 

Steve flashes a grin and Mabel arrives with their milkshakes and a grilled cheese for Jean. 

~*~ 

There's something very satisfying about the end of the day, when his muscles are sore and aching, when his hands are dirty with grease and grit, when he is exhausted from a long, productive day of work, and satisfied customers and Tony is finally exhausted into silence, waving distracted as he ducks out with Pepper in tow. 

He likes his work, likes the thing he's built here, likes that he built it with Tony. 

But there's also something very lonely in the silence of the shop when Tony is gone, in the absence of music and the knowledge that all that awaits him is an empty house and a reheated meal. 

There's a clang of metal as Bucky closes the hood on the Charger he's spent most of the day working on, and it reminds Steve that the boy is there. 

Not that he's been able to forget him, an awareness vibrating under his skin the entire day that had only gotten worse when Bucky sat across from him and smiled at Jean and Rhodey, all storm sky eyes and easy acceptance. 

"You wanna work on the bike, son?" he asks, and Bucky twitches toward him, a smile ticking up his lips, bright and eager. 

"Yeah," he breathes, and Steve laughs. 

~*~ 

He ducks into the office while Bucky uncovers the bike because it's his, now, and it's between him and his dead. DumDum might be his as much as--more than--Bucky's but *this isn't. 

The problem isn't so much that he minds staying after closing as he knows Pepper will skin him alive and give his balls to Carter as a damn chewtoy if he messes with her computer system. 

He sketches instead. There's the painting he wants to do of Jean before her birthday, and he has a commission that he should probably finish and send sometime soon, but when he puts pencil to paper, it's not the car or his granddaughter that he sketches--it's a strong pair of shoulders, long hair and bright eyes, a shy smile and that fucking metal arm that he wants to catch and explore and test his strength against. 

Bucky comes alive on the paper with strong, sparse lines, filling out beautifully and he stares at it, as he shades in the hollow of Bucky's throat where he wants to _bite_ , and he knows he has a problem--the look Tony gave him when he introduced Bucky made it very clear what Tony thought of the kid--but he doesn't even think he minds, so much. 

He doesn’t really know what to do with that. 

~*~ 

It’s dark and his stomach is grumbling, lunch a long distant memory, when he finally puts down the sketch, standing and going to the garage. 

Bucky is still there, frowning at the lines of the Harley, and he looks--

He looks tired, and the stooped line of his shoulders tugs something unhappily in Steve’s gut. 

“Shouldn’t you be headin’ on home?” Steve asks, and Bucky tenses. 

He knew Steve was there, was the thing. 

Boy is still wound tight from war, there was no way he didn’t hear Steve’s boots scraping across the concrete. 

He glances out the bay door, where the night beckons, and Steve follows his gaze. 

The parking lot is empty, except for his Chevy. He remembers the way Bucky had been posted up, dozing, too early in the morning, the haunted gauntness of his cheeks, the fucking grilled cheese he ordered at lunch. 

“I’ve got a pot roast in the crockpot, at home. You hungry?” he asks, not thinking too much before he speaks and Bucky goes still, watching him. 

Something flickers in those big blue eyes of his, brief, before Bucky’s shoulders slump. “Yeah,” he says, softly, “That--that’d be ok.


End file.
